


crimson apples

by blue_scribbles



Series: red punch [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Graphic Description of Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Assault, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, graphic description of scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 05:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18381611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_scribbles/pseuds/blue_scribbles
Summary: An additional scene for "red punch" in which the argument with aunt May is elaborated. I would advise to not read this as a standalone story, but with the context of the tags one could probably try.





	crimson apples

**Author's Note:**

> this fic discusses difficult topics, such as sexual violence and self-harm, which could possibly be triggering, so please proceed with caution or feel free to skip this fic. Since english is not my native language please pardon eventual spelling or grammar mistakes that might occur.

Peter had come home late, his day had been anything but good. First he had been woken by another nightmare, which had left him antsy and irritated then he had been grouped with Flash at decathlon practice, who still acted as if he wasn't there- and maybe he wasn't, at least not really- but to have to stare into his guilt-ridden face, while he was the last one who had any right to feel bad for him, had made him want to tear that insufferable, self-righteous face into shreds, and god Peter knew he could, but he was also painfully aware that this boiling rage was just a self-defence mechanism, so he didn't have to face the fear that lay beneath it, waiting to overtake him, as soon as he would let his guard down. 

 

But Peter couldn't do that just now, he didn't want to break apart over Flash fucking Thompson's cologne and the heat radiating from his burning face, not again, he couldn't do that, he couldn't let go of the anger if it meant collapsing in a dusty corner of his godfordaken room, being reduced to the role of a victim, as damsel in distress that needed to alert Tony Stark of all people, to come pull his drugged body out of his own sick, all the while looking like an irresponsible teenager, that overestimated himself, even though he knew Tony had certainly enough problems to deal with on his own. 

 

And anyway, what exactly was he now? A victim? A victim of what?! Rape? sexual assault? God forbid these terms are for people who went through much worse than he did. For now he was just floating in a void, being just another estimated number of unreported cases, isolated and trapped in his silence. And he was fine with that, better to handle this alone, than going through the humiliation of admitting what they had done to him. It was too late now to get evidence anyway. 

 

He just needed a distraction, something to focus his frustration on and tommorow could start off fresh. He needed a new skin, anything to not be himself for a little while. And so he ended up undressing in a barely-out-of-sight alley, where he slipped into his suit and started patrolling right away, fueled by the lingering anger, he was holding on to it for dear life, swinging through the city looking for trouble to get into. Peter kept up his stroll until evening, he didn't stop to get lunch, nor did he pick up the phone when May called, he kept on going picking one fight after another, trying to make himself feel some kind of satisfaction and when he let his opponents land one hit more than necessary, he didn't mention it. 

 

Peter had come home late, his day had been anything but good. And maybe it was just the irritation that had followed him all throughout the day, or the fact that he hadn't answered his aunt's calls, or because his face was battered with bruises, but as soon as he had set a foot into the apartment, May was at his throat, visibly wrought-up and concerned. 

 

“What do you think you're doing?! Your're not answering my calls, you don't get home for dinner, hell you didn't even let anyone know you're still alive! Do you even have any idea about what this does to me?!“

 

“May I'm fine.“ He started, knowing this was futile, considering his physical state as well as May's level of distress. 

 

“No you're not! You're not Peter! Have you even had a look at yourself?! You wander around all day, being a shadow of yourself and then you disappear, without a word, to do what? Pick fights with god knows who?! Anything could have happened to you and I wouldn't even know!“ She took a deep breath, that didn't really contribute to calming herself.

 

“You can't do this to me, you can't. Not after Ben and not after this party,“ She went on and unknowingly overstepped an invisible line, shaking Peter to his core.

 

“Stop, just stop it! This isn't about the goddamn party in any way, so stop mentioning it!“ Peter was screaming now, trying to claw the memories away with sheer force. 

 

“Hell it is! Do you even have the slightest idea of how it feels when the first thing in the morning you hear is a call from some stranger explaining to you that _your_ kid, the _one_ person you are responsible for, has been drugged and abused by a bunch of teenagers at a Party you didn't even know, he'd be at?!“ Peter fliched away at that and curled in on himself.

 

“He had no right to tell you that.“ He whispered, at a loss of words.

 

“And you would have?! Because all you did so far was leave me out. Why would you rather venture out all day, getting beat up, than just talk to me? I am trying to help you!“ Her tone became pleading, threatening to choke Peter as his defence slipped away. 

 

“But I don't want your help, May! And I don't want to talk to you.“ He tried to recover quickly, only making May's eyes glisten with hurt. 

 

“This is not about what you want, you _need_ to talk to me, I have to know what's going on.“

 

“No you do not! This is _my_ business and you don't decide who I open up to!“ Panic was rising and his chest felt too tight to breathe. Meanwhile May only got angrier.

 

“If someone decides to hurt my boy, It is goddamn well my business! What do you even think you're saying here? I gave everything, only so you could be happy, only so you could have any chance to be who you wanted to be and now you go and throw all that away? Everything I did for you and you don't even trust me enough with this?“ May talked herself further into hysterics, straining from her original point into a confused expression of the betrayal she felt.

 

Peter couldn't bear to listen to May anymore, his head was screaming at him in despair, torn between his inability to explain himself to May and the guilt that was heavy in his stomach. He felt like breaking down right then and there but that would make May just more worried. But on the other hand was he incapable of stopping himself from panting in panic at the confrontation. He needed to get out. He pushed past his aunt trembling with stress, as she tried to get a hold of him.

 

“I can't lose you, please, don't do this to me.“ May's thin fingers were now grasping his sweater weakly and Peter knew she had slipped away, overwhelmed by her own demons.

 

He stared at her in shock, as the tears she had held back were now spilling over her cheeks, before he made a sharp turn for his room's door and rushed inside. The last time Peter had seen his aunt this distraught was right after Ben's death, it had always scared him, to see the only person he could depend on, so lost within her own emotions. He locked his door. The pounding that followed was relentless.

 

“Peter, open up! Don't do this to me now!“ She pleaded, getting more hysteric.

 

Peter was afraid. He didn't know what to do, he was between a rock and a hard place, trapped until the situation would calm down. But right now he was far from calm. He sank down at the door and pulled his knees up to his chin.

 

“Talk to me Peter, please. I love you. Please open up, I just want you to be happy again.“ His aunt was weeping now, trying to reassure him, to no avail.

 

Peter could physically feel himself getting triggered, blood rushed to his head, making his eyes buzz with panic while his vision darkened at the edges, subsequently making him zone out completely. Whatever she might have tried next, he couldn't hear more than the knocking on the thin wooden door. He wasn't sure if he was screaming or if she was, but the noise around him was deafening. Peter rocked back and forth while the hypervantilation shook him violently, May's sentence repeated itself in a loop in his head. _I love you, I love you, I love you._ She said, like it was the most natural thing, yet Peter hated himself. And he was afraid that she would too, once she knew how ugly he was. How could she love him? Why couldn't he just be someone worthy of love? _I love you, I love you, I love you._ They echoed over and over again until they lost their meaning, leaving only a fuzzy sensation in his mouth, as if he had chewed on a mothball layered with dust.

 

_I just want you to be happy again._

He just wanted her to stop expecting him to be okay. He was trying and he was trying to keep up a facade but he was a terrible liar, so all that he was left with, was concern he didn't deserve and more guilt. What should he do? He felt trapped in his skin, he couldn't help himself and he couldn't reach for help, so what now? Everyone was expecting him to make the right choice, not understanding that he didn't know better. What was he to do, when he couldn't satisfy anyone, except to just escape it all at once? Maybe he could make it stop, if he just ended it for good.

 

It wasn't the first time Peter had thought about suicide, but it sure was the first time he actively considered it. At that moment all that existed for him was the agonising pain in his chest and the mess in his head. Panic was dominating his senses, fearing that he would be abandoned by the only person he had left of his family and scared by the memories forcing themselves into his consiousness like vomit coming up his throat. However deep he might have breathed at that moment was irrelevant, because the only thing he was aware of, was the lack of oxygen in his system, as he was being smothered in the sheets of Flash's bed.

 

He heaved himself up on his shaky legs, ready to run to the next exit and escape the countless hands touching him, even if it meant jumping out the nearest window.- He wouldn't let them touch him again, Flash had been right, it was his fault.- But to his horror, his legs gave way after just a few wobbly steps, making him crash against his bedside drawer. Fresh tears streamed down his face in a sudden rush and he gave a breathless whimper. He scrambled around him for something to get him out of here but only found a thumbtack that lay forgotten under his bed. He grasped it tight in his fist, holding on to it for dear life, even though he knew it was no help, until the needle bore itself into the soft flesh of his palm and he flinched away from the pain, tucking out the needle at once with the jolt.

 

He only barely recognized the blood squeezing itself out of the small hole in his hand, glowing red like a sweet apple in the dim light of his room but he felt the pain that followed cristal clear, forming the eye in the storm that ravaged his mind. Peter picked up the needle again, the sharp object coming into focus while the rest of his vision was hazy. The silver needle shone temptatingly and Peter pulled down his sleeve mesmerized, already too far gone to realise what he was about to do, all he knew at that point was that it would help him ease the chaos.

 

He pressed the small tip of the thumbtack against his bare skin with trembling hands and jerked it across his wrist. A dull pain spread from the thin scrape underneath his palm but no blood welled up. Still unsatisfied he positioned the object lower on his arm and pressed harder neglecting any thought about his actions. The next cut was less shallow and small droplets of blood formed at it's surface. The pain was now more sharp and pierced through the noise with a sudden intensity. Incited he started a new scratch. He kept this up until his arm was throbbing and his mind was silenced completely. The needle had been dull and therefore left no deep cuts, the minor bleeding that did occur, could just dry up over the wounds, which Peter watched impassively, every connection to his body lost throughout the process.

 

The pounding and screaming at his door had stopped too, making something similar to relieve wash over Peter. He relaxed further against the bedside drawer, the thumbtack already forgotten next to him. Peter felt spend, from the panicattack and the strain of the argument, added to that came his itching eyes and the constant aching in his arm. All he wanted right now was to close his eyes and pass out. At least he could say that he felt less suicidal now. Devoid of anything else to do, he rolled himself into his bed, threw his blanket half-heartedly over his hips and was fast asleep in a matter of seconds.

 

In the morning Peter's memories of last night were blurred, while the argument with aunt May had remained mainly unaltered, how he had gotten into his bed was a mystery to him. Just as he saw the scratches on the inside of his arm, did he remember the panicattack even though the memory was still fuzzy. Apart from that, he felt weirdly light-headed, the despair from the night before had given way to an unnatural euphoria, that put Peter into an unreasonable good mood.

 

He went to take a shower before he went into the kitchen to pick up breakfast for school. His wounds were now cleaned up and tucked away safely under a button-up and a pullover, the usually soft fabric felt rough against the burning cuts littering his forearm, making Peter move with a little more care than usual as not to irritate them. In the kitchen waited May, still looking a little groggy, a steaming cup of coffee enclosed in her hands, she would work late today, so she still had a few hours to get ready.

 

“Morning.“ Peter greeted hesitantly and went to rummage around on the kitchen counter, fixing up breakfast for him.

 

Subsequently his aunt got up from her seat at the kitchen table and shuffled next to him. Peter tried to keep his nervousness in check by focusing on the task at hand, smearing cream cheese on a bagel. May layed a gentle hand on his shoulder, as she spoke, a smell of coffee filled the space between them.

 

“I'm sorry for overstepping your boundaries yesterday,“ she confessed “I was just worried you would isolate yourself, because you thought no one would be there for you.“

 

He nodded sympathetically, his gaze still frozen on the counter top. “I'm sorry... f-for yelling at you a-and ignoring your calls.“ He whispered ashamed for the debacle the prior day.

 

“It's fine, just let me know what's been going on anytime soon, m'kay?“ May hummed against his curls after she had pulled him into a gentle embrace, when she let go again she held his shoulders for a few more seconds while looking him expectantly into his unsure eyes.

 

“We'll see.“ he murmured before turning to his bagel again, dropping it unceremoniously into the paper bag and adding an apple.

 

Realising she wouldn't get any more out of her boy, and unwilling to press further, she let the subject go, occupying herself with her coffee again. Peter grapped the bag and fetched his backpack from his room, as he was swinging the door open, he took a moment to turn around again to wave May goodbye, then he left for school.

 

The cuts took Peter about three days to fully heal, at the second day, they had already formed scars, they were pale and thicker than he had first anticipated but he could easily blame that on the dullness of the thumbtack. By the third day's evening, every trace of the scars had completely disappeared, Peter had only been a bit sad at seeing the marks had vanished, even though he would have never admitted that. Still this should remain Peter's only brush with cutting, just as he didn't consider holding up to his promise to May.

 


End file.
